Before Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy there were Beatrice and Benedick and before Pride and Prejudice there was Much Ado About Nothing. It’s my favourite Shakespearean comedy and one of the finest examples of courting every portrayed. Not for me the verbal chastity of Ophelia or the demure quietness of Violet. No indeed. I’m all the mischievous outspokenness that is Beatrice. I stand in awe of her sharp raillery and unabated cheerfulness. She is one cool lady.

I suffer from a severe case of friend crush. I ache to ask her over for tea and biscuits every day. She exudes a certain je ne sais quoi. The comical intensity of verbal exchanges between her and Benedick is unprecedented. I enjoy their scenes so much, namely because sparks are flying like swallows during mating season. The thing is that the sly cad had toyed with her feelings in the past, so Beatrice reserves herself the right to plague him to death, which is nothing less than he (or any other unscrupulous swindler) deserves.

The tension is sustained by their incessant verbal sparring. They’re equals, although I would give Beatrice the edge for her (almost excessive) linguistic creativity. Oh, how she taxes the poor man. It’s delightful. The sheer confluence of biting sarcasm, wilful comments and mordant wit leaves me in semantic raptures.

BEATRICE : I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.

BENEDICK :What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?

BEATRICE:Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.

BENEDICK : Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.

BEATRICE : A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

BENEDICK : God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some gentleman or other shall ‘scape a predestinate scratched face.

BEATRICE : Scratching could not make it worse, and ’twere such a face as yours were.

BENEDICK : Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

BEATRICE: A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

I think I’ve just reached a lexical nirvana. I need a moment to collect myself.

I find theirs the perfect courtship, I particularly like the way the entire scheme is brought about. I don’t set much store by love potions, so you see I’m not up for Puck or some other male fairy spiking a girl’s drink with the renaissance variety of a rape-drug. Luckily, our B &B power couple run with a completely different crowd. Their friends are not blind to their chemistry. In fact, they decide to speed things up by tricking the love birds into believing that they are lovesick for one another. How quickly we are prepared to believe what pleases us.

Basically, plot-wise this is a precursor of modern rom-coms, the difference being that the writing here is actually good (I can see a posthumous Tony nomination coming old Will’s way). As in most of his comedies, Shakespeare provides a foil couple to our two protagonists. In our play this honour belongs to his-and-her’s best friends. The girl is Beatrice’s cousin Hero (a strange name for a girl, I know!) and the boy is Claudius, Benedick’s soldier buddy. These two hit it off from the start, but as usual the playwright prodigy satirizes love at first sight and exposes it as a common romantic trope. He does the same thing in The Taming of the Shrew and in Twelfth Night, which leads me to believe that Shakespeare didn’t believe in first impressions either (wise man that he was).

In fact, the recurring theme (and possibly, moral) of this comedy, if you care to find it, is that looks can be deceiving. The play makes this clear on several levels: Hero is not really the heroine (she didn’t commit any indiscretions) and sexual attraction should not be confused with true love. Feelings and characters are all ultimately unmasked. Was the Bard trying to get a message across?

Hark, the list fanatics of the world! Our time is nigh. The days when list-writing carried a stigma are over, nowadays all the cool kids are doing it. It’s cheap, it’s easy (Koko the gorilla could probably do it) and it’s highly entertaining. Also, it’s something you can do on your own without having to refer to the proverbial wisdom of your immediate ancestors. I am pleased to inform you that being in a relationship is not a requirement (these days so many things are), nor is the psychological instability (although, it helps). It’s just you and your felt-tip pen (the one that has always been there for you when you had to write nasty things about the cute waiter whom you secretly fancied even though he was totally wrong for you and who didn’t even offer to ask you for your phone number for the sake of politeness when you so clearly showed your eager interest in him by patronizing his employer’s establishment three times in one week and even forgot various personal articles (like your mobile phone, your library card and your house keys – making sure he could contact you personally) in the booth – don’t judge me …). My point is, lists can be and , indeed, are useful.

Despite the semi-mocking tone in the introductory paragraph, I, in fact, believe that list-making is very conducive towards enhancing one’s performance levels. I will not deny that this particular year was not my best, and I’m blaming the lack of lists in my life for it. You see, I love making lists – I always have. It’s something I was born with, much like my Yeti feet. They are great (the lists I mean, not the curious shape of my pedal extremities) for a multitude of sensible reasons. For example, they help one to organize one’s thoughts. Even the great Hercule Poirot, notre bon ami, had recurred to this technique time and again (see, how I cleverly forced an Agatha Christie comparison into the text?).

Also, I love the potential productivity that the idea of a list conveys. Naturally, I never get to tick off all the items I put on a list, but it’s the thought that counts (the obligatory lie one must tell oneself before getting crushed under the imaginary weight of self-reproaches and comfort food) or so says the worn-out slogan of every support group in existence. The great news is that there is a plethora of lists to choose from. One must naturally distinguish between serious list that would leave even people that don’t know you in awe (e.g. lists of actors you will eventually marry and then divorce or lists of punishments you want to inflict on your friends for tricking you into seeing any of the three Hangover movies) and lists that you make when you’re feeling frivolous (lists of nine letter words of Greek origin or, if you’re feeling naughty, words with Germanic affixes).

However, my favourite type of a list is a book list. My Serotonin levels rise at the very sight of one. There are 3 book lists in my top drawer at every given time. I simply love perusing through them. I grant you, sometimes it’s about as useful as reading the ingredients on the back of a flower fertilizer, but it has the redeeming quality of calming one’s mind. It really does. Often, when I don’t feel like doing anything too mentally strenuous, I will go read a book list. Not every list will do, mind you. I’m a list snob (of the worst kind, really) and will accept only those that have been approved by professionals or people who share my impeccable taste.

Even though I go into a conniption fit whenever I see a poorly-written book list, I’ve learned to control my indignation in front of the perpetrators of such atrocities and I have even learned to fight back by writing my proper book lists → epitome of everything that is beautiful in this world (no point being modest about it). Sometimes it’s as intellectually satisfying as actually reading the books because you see, personalized book lists are like chocolate muffins, they just don’t disappoint.

Of course, hiding behind every list-writing enthusiast is a pathological control freak. We are incapable of acting spontaneously and enjoying ourselves (unless we write that ON the list). I guess this must be connected with some inner insecurities which only extensive therapy can cure. Be that as it may, lists are simply wonderful. They’re full of promises of exciting things to come. Sometimes, that is just what you need.

Oh goody, it’s New Year’s. Another sad remainder that one achieved absolutely nothing this year. Less than nothing even. I think some years (this year actually) one (meaning myself) can actually manage to be anti-productive. It so happens that last year I forgot to make a list of resolutions (there is no excuse for it, I know), so this Monday I can at least lick my wounds in peace – and pretend not to remember all the things I failed to do (- to deceive oneself is half the battle). To have one’s failures listed on paper in alphabetical order (you can as well be neat) makes it that more jarring.

As my capacity for self-delusion suffers under the increasing strain of reality, I try to maintain my mental well-being by indulging in exuberance of escapism. Since I’m in a morbid mood, I must adjust my reading choices accordingly. They’re all about death, murder and being suicidal (and that’s just Snow White). I can’t afford to be too “Grimm-looking” (people might start to talk), so I have decided for some textually “lighter” reading. I’m currently half-way through my 3rd Agatha Christie (my weekly total) and the novels are proving to be very amusing. Black humour is much appreciated in a crime story. That Poirot man is one clever fellow. (I’m quite sure he never forgot to write a list of resolutions himself.) Also, human nature being what it is, it seems infinitely more enjoyable to read about other people’s miserable lives.

When I’m not sulking about or venting my Dark Side, I am trying not to bore my friend to death. She is awfully nice and funny and came from Paris to keep me company for a couple of days. My French seems to have reached a new low, so she deserves my respect (she’s truly a saint) for not bludgeoning me to death every time I have the impulse to open my mouth. I take the expression “kill time” very literally. It’s my impoverished survival instinct. It kicks in when the mind senses an upsurge of metaphysical angst.

In truth, I’m boycotting reality. In every possible way. I must say that if it weren’t for my secret power of imagination (“the world’s most powerful graphics disc” according to Sheldon Cooper), I would run the risk of becoming ordinary. The horror … Weird and funky is my thing. Without it, I’m just a sad girl who has imaginary conversations with the neighbour’s cat. (His name is Mr. Sparkler. He’s adorable, but not very bright – much like his namesake from Little Dorrit.) He tells me he didn’t particularly care for 2012 either and awaits the coming year impatiently. Apparently, our cat – Lady Violet, is a difficult cat to please (don’t I know it) and he’s thinking about taking his “business” elsewhere. Tomcats …

I’m not making this up. It’s been a rotten year all around. I’ve moved back home and became the family’s no. 1 under-achiever. Nothing I do ever seems to be right. For example, today I offered to go light the fire and I ended by setting fire to my fingernails (there are no words …). And as I tried to put the flame out, I rose too quickly and hit my head (my parietal lobe, to be precise) against the wall. You could hear the howl of pain a mile away. Not what I would call a successful end of the year.

I don’t mean to imply that there weren’t some bright moments after all, but in the melancholic aftermath of uneventfully bland Xmas, it is hard to remember the days not filled with self-pity and commiseration. The year 2012 is simply not worth to be seen in review (even though it did see the premiere of The Hobbit and the bicentennial anniversary of Dickens’ birth). The last year’s unfortunate omission of New Year’s resolutions and consequently the UnMerry 2012 made me sink in superstitious fancies. Therefore, to interrupt this vicious circle, I’m writing my resolutions down this year. Recycled paper, here I come (I might be in a bad mood, however, that’s no reason to act nasty towards nature). 2013 – you better make me proud.

1. Feed the cat. (Remember, it doesn’t like you, but that’s no reason to give it potato salad.)

2. Get a bunch of books from the library. You deserve it.

3. Survive the end of the world. (or paint your toenails – optional)

4. Write Christmas cards. (Also, buy Xmas cards!)

Sadly, that truly is the unimpressive life I lead. Actually, the most exciting thing about today was writing that list. (Admit it, you like writing them too! It’s such fun.) I was aiming to combine the ontological with the commonplace (I’ve had worse ideas). The only flaw in otherwise perfect list was that I completely forgot the world was supposed to end today, even though I distinctly remember writing it in my planner. I then lost, sorry, “permanently misplaced” the planner.

Putting my infectious obliviousness aside, let’s take a moment and consider the amazing collective feat we pulled off today. We managed to survive the end of the world. In your face Superman. This means we’re phenomenal. I mean how often do people predict that the world will end? So far, only once a year. I don’t read my horoscope, so possibly, the average number may be higher. (Please, excuse my ignorance in that area.)

I have a confession to make. I’m the worst fake believer in Divination (I outdo even Hermione). To tell you the truth, the impending doom was about as high on my priority list as was choosing the right colour of toilet paper in the store (in the end, I went with light orange. I find it more authentic than other colours. Plus, it’s bowel-movement-friendly.) In fact, I will go as far as saying I didn’t believe the world will end at all (I have some nerve, right?). Let he who was scepticism-free (a.k.a ridiculously gullible) cast the first stone. – Hmm, just as I thought.

Besides the lack of credulity when it comes to ancient prophecies, I simply decided that this Friday it would not at all suit me to die. First of all, I made plans to see The Hobbit during the weekend (an event I have been impatiently waiting for the last 4 years) and I won’t let a little thing like “total destruction” come in the way of me and Peter Jackson. Second of all, I still haven’t finished Catch-22 and I must know whether Nately’s whore succeeds in killing Yossarian or not (not knowing is the worst). Clearly, all of these are life-and-death issues, therefore, I’m postponing the end of the world till 3000 and something (I feel we have one millennium in us yet) or till it feels more convenient. Whichever comes first.

I have the biggest respect for the Maya peoples (I dote on their fashion choices), but it will take some scientific mumbo-jumbo to make this girl even slightly suspicious about imminent annihilation. Actually, if you take the word of a disc-jockey on a low-budget radio station (and I, for one, do), it would seem the Mayas themselves saw today as the beginning of a new era rather than THE Apocalypse. Therefore, what was all the fuss about? Personally, I have no sympathy for those who were building bunkers (like that’s going to save you) and buying books (really, people?) about how to prepare for the end. I’m not afraid to say, I’m judging every one of them.

For heaven’s sake (how do you like my apocalyptic lingo?), life is not a Cormac McCarthy novel. Not yet, anyway. There is still some “road” to travel. In any case, I have a plan. When the real thing comes, I’m going to be prepared. I intend to read Jane Austen’s books (that includes her private correspondence) and eat cake for a week. Pretty good, eh? My only worry is that my favourite patisserie will run out of cake. That would really put a spanner in the works. – We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Also, as famous landmarks across the world will be getting destroyed, specifically the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty, I will sit in my rocking chair listening to the ultimate Disaster song – The Ride of the Valkyries. Epic moments deserve epic treatment.

It would be pointless to end this post on a positive note, so I’m ending it on a poetic one. I’m wondering, as did the great Robert Frost, whether the world will end in fire or in ice. The heat of passion & the coldness of hate? Both are lethal. Eventually, we will all have to come to terms with our own mortality. I just prefer facing The Solitary Reaper head on.

Ok, technically speaking, it’s not the Grim Reaper, but one of the Ringwraiths. However, whom do you think Tolkien had in mind when he “created” those hellish creatures?

Once upon a time (after all, who am I to go against this well-respected fairytale opening) there lived a young middle-class girl who simply doted on Jane Austen and Lord of the Rings (it would have sufficed to say she had excellent taste). This charming maiden also had a younger sister who doesn’t appear in this story at all, but the author thinks it important to at least acknowledge her existence. The young maiden took interest in many things except exercise, physics, cookbooks, cooking itself, facebook games, the Hilton sisters, the news programme, the weather programme, French historical grammar and Jack Kerouac.

One day this fetching creature met a lady that gave her good advice –nay, excellent advice. A fortnight later she was introduced to a petty government officer who offered her the very worst advice possible. The scoundrel. Another fortnight later she got a letter that bore some displeasing piece of news. All in all, the girl had quite constant sources of communication (she was ALMOST very popular in correspondence circles). However, a year ago, the heroine got into some trouble. (Once she returned from the ball after midnight (the hussy), but it has nothing to do with this story, so please forget about it. Immediately. Why are you still reading this paragraph?).

Despite her antagonistic feelings towards any form of physical exertion, the silly thing got and enrolled herself in a fitness class that took place every Monday morning at 7.30 a.m. Why, you ask? She couldn’t say. She only knew that the morning slot would suit her best because most fellow students are lazy buggers that wouldn’t dream of doing anything as demanding as indoor cycling so early in the week and she would be left alone to ponder her own thoughts for an hour and a half.

Alas, it would not be. Not only was she not alone, when she came in late the first morning, her gaze rested upon some twenty gentlemen who were already busily engaged in chasing one another around the gym. She was the only lady. They looked at her as if she had come in riding a unicorn. You see, the poor creatures had never seen a lady this close before. They were scared – and rightly so, she could have easily knocked the sense out of their nerd-built bodies (I mean, who else did you expect to show up at 7.30?).

Then, an extraordinary thing happened. She joined them quite unabashed (if you disregard her prolonged meditation of the floor, her disinclination to establish eye contact and the intense blushing that coloured her cheeks). In the end, it appeared they were more scared of her than she of them. It was one of the maiden’s many misfortunes that morning to forget to check herself up in the magic mirror on the wall. That honest bastard would have told her to avoid doing sports.

However, since the running slippers seemed a perfect match, she decided to give this thing a go. Also, she had washed her hair the previous evening and it seemed a waste not to show that gold locks off. When she entered the hall, it lit up (for the caretaker had just turned on the lights). She was a vision in black (she ran out of clean white clothes during the weekend). Well, as it had been already said, she joined the young frogs, I mean princes in sportsman attire.

The day seemed promising until (some few minutes later, two min actually) destiny gave her a horrible twist. She was stretching her shapely limbs when suddenly the earth shook beneath her feet and left her lying on the floor. The lady runneth no more. She was lying prostrate on the floor for 5 long minutes, until the gentlemen decided it would be difficult to play the game around her – she was taking up too much space.

Finally, a man in black (her gym teacher) happened to notice she was writhing with pain, and offered her his arm for support. The game could be resumed; as for the girl, she wasn’t doing that well. Her right foot was twice the size of her left one. No reduction spell from Madam Pomfrey for her. (A friend of the lady’s did suggest that her foot was the size of a hobbit’s. At the time, the lady didn’t catch the word “size” and was afraid that her friend was making a much, much less gallant comparison. She would like to take this opportunity and apologise to her friend for the name-calling that ensued).

Luckily, she was given one call. She chose her sister’s father. As a king on a white horse, he came to her rescue and took her to the Houses of Healing. There they took care of her and gave her some more distressing news. The silly thing broke a bone in her left foot and was given a cast and a pair of crutches as a consolation prize. That week she had to miss all of her classes and she was inconsolable. But, bit by bit, her spirits were restored and soon she was only dead tired (she spent up to 12 hours at the faculty because her schedule was disastrous) and hungry (she frequently ran out of food and was too tired – refer to the previous remark – to buy some).

After two weeks, Lady Limps-A-Lot could manage the walk to the faculty (it only took her 5 times the usual time). Since she couldn’t hold an umbrella, her fairy god-mother brought her a black raincoat. She decided to disregard the fact that she looked like the limping hunchback of Ljubljana, and focused on what her LOTR background was forcing her to see. It was a cape of invisibility that the fair Galadriel handed out in the Fellowship. If nothing else, it helped hide her identity (which she was anxious to do at whatever cost).

Four months later she could walk normal again. THE END

Mr. Right didn’t make his appearance because to engage his services would have been too expensive and because the heroine thought he was no match for her.

Like this:

I’m one of those freaks who could find a reference to Jane Austen in an auto repair manual. People in my life are not supportive of that. I am perfectly aware that my unconcealed regard for her invites comments of ungenerous nature. I don’t care. I would even read a grocery list if I knew she had written it. Let’s face it, the woman has it all – wit, irony and intelligence. What more could one want in a person?

My own love-affair with Austen started in august of 2008. I had just finished my final exams and I was looking forward to a study-free summer. Even though I had worked those textbooks to the bone, in consistency with my low self-image at the time, I was convinced that I probably failed … everything really. Preparing to embark on a career in sanitation engineering, I decided I should at least be well-read. Who knew, maybe one day I would get promoted to the rank of a coordinator of interpretive teaching (that’s English for a “museum tour-guide”).

Having failed to come up with ideas for a good read, I turned on the TV and saw the trailer for Sense and Sensibility. I remember thinking at the time that Emma Thompson sure looked like she could act (I was right). I decided to watch the film, but only after reading the book. It felt the right thing to do. So, the next day I confidently marched into the library and borrowed the alliterative duo: P&P, S&S. I didn’t know it then, but my life changed forever that day.

The very same night, I entered a world where social Etiquette ruled with an iron fist and Politeness wore an affected smirk, a world where oppressive Propriety was dissected through the prism of sardonic Wit while Complaisance playfully ceded to courtship to better torment the soul. It was a lovely place to wander into and if the truth be told, I don’t think I have ever truly left it. It is my Neverland.

Now, can you keep a secret? Mr. Darcy is not my dream man. (I can just imagine the Janeite sisterhood being seized with a communal coughing fit). He’s too proud and … well, prejudiced for my taste. Besides, I have always considered myself more of a Henry Tilney kind of gal. I mean, the man knows about muslin (!). A rare quality even in our day.

Having chosen the perfect life-partner, I needed, in turn, to decide which Austen heroine I most resembled in mind and body. (You never know when the information might come in handy). Like thousands of girls before me, I sought the answer on the internet. After answering around 60 questions regarding my views on exercise regime (against it) and petticoat length (none of your business), the cyberspace oracle decided I was 81% Elinor Dashwood and 81% Jane Bennet. Putting this mathematical absurdity aside, I needed to focus on what the quiz genie would do next. In order to “properly” determine my literary alter-ego once and for all, I had to answer a bonus question. (I did it because I didn’t want it to look like I had just wasted an hour of my time.) Anyway, it was no brain teaser, I was merely asked about my preference in men. I tend to like them smart, so the dashing Elinor it was. (Note to self: update facebook status.)

Despite my light banter, I take her works very seriously. Therefore, when someone drops a half-baked comment about her being chick-lit, I suffer a miniature stroke. Not only that, my eyes bulge out, my bosom starts heaving with indignation and for some arcane reason I get bilateral twitching in my nose. I will admit that her plots invariably end with marriage proposals, but so do all of Shakespeare’s comedies. Her novels are interesting because at the heart of them lie human relationships – a subject that will never become outdated. Also, her extraordinary ability to endow even the most casual remark with significance and candour, makes her one of a kind even amongst fellow novelists.

The following quotation is taken from the ending of Mansfield Park where the authoress rendered the hero’s thoughts in free indirect speech (and accompanied them with her own opinion as well):

Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too god for him; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing … (Austen 2006, p. 489).

These choicest pearls of irony are diffused with great frequency throughout her books. In Persuasion, which is my personal favourite, one stumbles upon a veritable treasure:

He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him “poor Richard,” been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead. (Austen 2004, p.46)

It doesn’t matter how many times I read this passage, each time I feel I’m in danger of rupturing a vital organ due to the laughing cramps caused by the semantic implications of the latter remark. In spite of the strict policy on colourful language, she calls the poor miscreant a dick! Don’t forget that this was written at a time when even expressions like “dash it” seemed to offend readers’ sensibilities. What a lady! She is even able to insult someone in a classy and intelligent way. A singular achievement indeed.

Finally, it is a truth universally acknowledged that once you fall in love with Austen’s style, there is no way back. It is a rewarding experience in every possible way. The exquisite beauty of her prose, aptly coupled with felicity of expression, lends her writing a timeless charm. Oscar Wilde was just one of her many admirers. Now, off to the nearest library.